


The Price We Pay

by allofthefandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Graphic Description, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Torture, torture on film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthefandoms/pseuds/allofthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran finds John before Sherlock finds him, taking a twisted pleasure in continuing the games of his dead partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price We Pay

**Author's Note:**

> So more explict hurt/comfort. The more I love them, the more I want to hurt them, it seems. Please heed all tags and warnings!

John slammed the door against the rainstorm, stomping up the stairs into the flat, rotating the plastic bag to another hand as he ran one soaking wet hand through his equally wet hair. Going inside, he was about to yell that he had the milk before realizing the flat was empty. It had been empty for six months. Except this time it wasn't. Not quite. There was the distinct smell of tea, and the feeling that someone was just behind a corner. There was an angry hiss and the shuffle of feet.

"Tea, John?"

John gave a swear and dropped the bag on the ground, one hand scrabbling for the gun that's not there. "You're Moriarty's henchman, aren't you?"

There was a snort. "Hardly. Though it wouldn't be safe for either of us for you to know who I am. And I promise you the tea is safe." The man, dressed in a simple but well cut suit looked familiar, but John couldn't quite place him. Taking a sip from the cup, he offered the cup to John.

John took the tea warily. "I saw you with him. Sebastian, right?" He sat down, taking a small sip. "What the hell are you doing in my flat? You want congratulations on the fact that you won?"

So he did rub off on you then. Impressive." The man--Sebastian-- sat, pulling out a small flask instead of taking tea. "But we didn't win. You of all people should know that winning was not what happened. Moriarty is dead, and your little friend is thinning what is left of his network. He's looking for me right now, you know. In Lapland."

"What the hell are you jabbering on about?"

"Oh so he didn't tell you. How sweetly naive of him. Sherlock, dear, is not dead. He went into hiding, faking his own death to protect you, thinking that somehow he could take all of us down before we got to you. You, the object of his confused and misguided affection. And now I have you right where I want you. And I'll win. Show him what it feels like when everything you love dies right before your eyes." He pulled out a long hunting knife with a sharp upper serrated blade, running a finger across the blade.

 

“And what's best? You walked right into it. Didn't notice that I slipped a sedative into that drink. You should be getting heavy by now. It's only taking the edge off my adrenaline. It's quite nice. A soft floaty feeling, no?"

John's eyes widened. "You're...." he couldn't phrase it. He started feeling like he was drifting. "Get away from me!" he hissed. Reaching out, Moran grabbed John by the wrist, tugging him flush to his chest before snarling into his ear.

"No. Sherlock will pay for taking the one man I loved away from me. Love is a vicious motivator, as I am sure he has told you. And what better way to do it than to violate the one thing he treasures." John fought against the grip and against the pull of the drug, struggling to stay conscious. He pushed against the other man's chest.

"I'll kill you," he whispered.

"If I don't kill you first." With one swipe of the sharp blade, Moran had sliced through jumper and shirt, pulling the ribbons off him while still keeping a firm grip on one arm at all times. Pulling out a zip tie from his pocket, he pulled John's arms into an uncomfortable position before zipping them together and throwing him to the floor. 

"You've been in a war zone, John. Did you ever meet someone who hurt and killed for pleasure? Because it brought them joy?"

John's eyes went wide and he struggled against the bonds. He spit out a swear, fighting to break the bonds. "You're an idiot," he snarled. "Drugging me before you even start? It's like you don't want me to even feel the pain!"

"The glory of it is that you won't slip under. Not quite. And besides, this is not about you. Don't be so greedy. It's about him. About him suffering. See that camera?" He pointed to the corner, where a steady red light could be seen flashing. "He'll watch every cut and hate himself for not saving you. For not being here to keep you safe. That is what I'm after."

"How is he seeing this?" John growled. "If he's seeing this, he'll come and help. I know it. And you'll have a tougher time breaking me than you think. I was a war doctor."

" Do stop thinking this is about you, John. It's a rather ugly trait, selfishness. As for the chances of him interrupting us? He's in Lapland, John. 4 hours from the nearest airport and another 4 hours to London. You'll be dead by then, and I'll be waiting. You see what happens to me is academic. I don't want to live. But if I can see that anguish on his face for just a moment before I die, I will go to my grave in peace." There was a soft look on his face for a moment.

"I bet you're pretty covered in blood." The first cut was deep and unexpected, running from the right collar bone to just under the left rib, leaving blood flowing steadily down John's chest.

John couldn't help giving a gasp, arching backwards to escape the pain. "If you're going to kill me, fine. I honestly don't care. Just tell Sherlock that I forgive him…"

Moran crouched, letting out a gale of laughter as he turned to the camera. "You hear that Sherlock? Isn't he cute? What a precious pet." He accentuated the word by dragging the knife over his sternum as hard as he could, letting the blade chew into the bone itself. "Jim was right about you," he hissed as he leaned over John's twitching body. "You are such a good little pet." The next few blows were deep and random, so glancing off bones, others deep, but not meant to do more than bleed him. John couldn't help letting out a scream, trying to fight the blades but unable to move, fight, or do anything. He struggled violently, but it seemed hopeless. He didn't want to cry out, couldn't afford to make a sound. He didn't want Sherlock to think it was his fault. It wasn't. 

"Let. Me. Go!" he panted, fighting. "You're going to die for this.'

"That's the idea. Or haven't you been listening? He won't call his big brother Mycroft. This is far too personal. He'll want to end this himself. By hand. And once I have finished this, I will have no reason to live regardless." He drew a finger across the bloody blade, licking his finger once it had collected a bead of John's blood and letting out a contented sigh.

"I'm enjoying this Sherlock," he said to the camera. "Far too much. And you can't do anything about it."

John pulled himself up, having one last ditch idea. He blinked, rapidly, Morse code for Mycroft. If Sherlock could see, he would call his brother. Sherlock might not be in London, by Mycroft was. Lestrade was. Just don't let him die....

"Clever, John," Moran said with a slow smile. "If he's aware enough of anything besides fear and guilt to act."

"Sherlock!" he screamed, blood dripping down his body, head bowed. "Just DO IT!"

"Shut up!!" There were three more vicious slashes, and then he was lifted and flipped on his back. Moran gazed at the collection of scar tissue on his shoulder and began to dig the knife into the old would. "Will you do it Sherlock? Call in your friends? Save him? And let me go?" John's phone went off, and Moran went to pick it up. He flipped it open and pressed it to John's ear. 

"It's for you."

John couldn't talk, couldn't bring himself to. The pain was too great, if he moved he would bite off his own tongue. His shoulder seemed to cave in, he couldn't think, couldn't speak.... "'lo?" he moaned.

"John, You alright? It's Greg. Something crazy happened. Sherlock--Sherlock--called and said you were in trouble."

John stiffened and looked up at Seb, not sure what to say.

"Telemarketer?" He said with a smirk, unaware of what was happening. "Shame that, seeing as it's your last phone call."

John could hear a hitch in Lestrade's voice, as if he had gotten some new information. "Oh God... John, if it's really you in this feed look at the camera. Bite your lip. And just stay put. Sherlock says he's at Heathrow and will be at the Yard soon. We're coming for you, I promise."

John closed his eyes and bit his lip, trying to make it look as natural as he possibly could. "Lestrade... I'm.... I'm fine. Promise." he lied.

"Be strong." Lestrade hung up.

"Lestrade, I know that name," Moran said darkly. "Ah yes, the detective inspector. How cute. I am thankful you appreciate the little nuances of our game, but now that there is a chance that your little friends are in on this, I think it may be best to leave the game for another time. After all, it's only Sherlock I have any desire to be caught by. You can still die though. It will make this that much sweeter." And he brought the knife down as hard as he could, leaving a gaping, sucking hole. "You get to watch him die now Sherlock. Alone."

John squeezed his eyes shut. "They don't know anything. Did you hear what I said or not? He thinks I'm tir---," the words broke off in an awful, bloodcurdling scream as John's hands closed around the knife in his stomach. "SHERLOCK!"

"Goodbye John. This was fun. A shame we won't do it again." Moran pulled his hood up, and left, closing the door with a quiet snick.

John lay on the floor of 221B, gasping at the knife in his stomach. Tears cascaded out of his eyes as his breath hitched, but hope bloomed. He was an army doctor; he knew how to deal with wounds. If the knife stayed in, he wouldn't die immediately. And Sherlock was on his way. Sherlock was on his way....

When Lestrade opened the door, there was blood everywhere.

"Oh God JOHN! Donovan, call an ambulance. Sherlock you can't just--!" Sherlock shoved past all the of yard officers crowding the stairwell to get to John. His John, who was bleeding out on the floor because he hadn't been careful enough to protect him.

John reached up. "I knew you'd come," he whispered, half-unconscious.

"Stay with me John. Hurry Lestrade this is urgent! His abdominal aorta has been punctured and he is close to bleeding out, along with any other possible internal trauma. He's dying!" Sherlock clenched John's pale and clammy hand tightly. "John I need you to talk to me. I am about to put pressure on your wound. This will hurt, but you are losing too much blood." He took his scarf, the one John knew was his favorite, and balled it around the knife, pressing down.

John jolted, screaming loudly. "No, no, no, no, no," he whimpered, pushing weakly on Sherlock's hands. "Please, please..." he begged.

"I have to John," Sherlock said sadly. "Just a few more minutes and the paramedics will be here. You must hold on. I did all of this for you and you will not die on me now."

"You were in Lapland," he whispered. "How are you even here with me?"

"I found out last night what he was planning. I could only get out today. I thought I was fast enough but then the live stream started on the plane, and he hurt you..." Sherlock could tell John was fading out on him. "JOHN!"

John jumped, "Sherlock, no...," he whined.

"No what? John, please tell me what is bothering you." Just so I can hear you talk, Sherlock thought.

"Hurts," he whimpers. "It hurts so much..."

"I know, but I can't let you die..." He twisted, hands still on John's stomach, to look for Lestrade. "What's taking them so long? A man is dying!"

"They know that and they're on their way, Sherlock, you can't make them teleport!" Lestrade snapped. John turned to look at Lestrade. "Thanks," he whispered. "You saved my life." John turned to Sherlock. "Thank you too," he said, slightly slurring his words.

"Only if you live," Lestrade said softly. Sherlock just tightened his grip. It was then that the paramedics arrived, yanking Sherlock's hands off of John to take measurements and prepare him for transport. John let out a bit of a whimper when Sherlock was taken away, reaching for him although he could barely move. His eyelids fluttered as he fell in and out of consciousness. 

"Sherlock....," he pleaded.

"I'll be right behind you," Sherlock promised. "Where are you taking him?" He called to one of the medics.

"Charing Cross ICU"

~ ~ ~

John's eyes swam into focus in a stark white room. He went to move but couldn't do anything, his whole body hurt. It felt like someone was sticking a dagger into him in multiple different places, but that was idiotic. "Sherlock...?" he called, voice a bit rough. There was a soft hand covering John's.

"I'm right here, John. It's ok. You are going to be fine, thank god."

John jumped a bit at the unexpected contact, pulling on his stomach and letting out a pained gasp. He turned his head to look at Sherlock. "What... what happened?" he asked quietly.

A pained look crossed Sherlock's face. "Moran. I thought that if I convinced you that I'd died, you would be safe. But I was so wrong. And he hurt you..." It was then that John noticed the scarf, still coated in John's blood. He touched it gently. 

"Why are you still wearing this?" he asked quietly.

There was a far off look in Sherlock's eyes and he couldn't respond. Because I love you, he thought, because I saved you and I needed something tangible to drive away the thought of you lying cold and dead when I returned. Because I love you and would have done anything to save you, even die. Because I love you and can't stand the thought of loosing you. 

"Because I love you. Because I love you and you almost died."

John paused, hand still hanging in the air over Sherlock's head. "....What?" he asked quietly.

"I love you. Mycroft said caring is not an advantage. And with you, I am so weak.... I'm sorry I left."

John tugged on Sherlock's scarf harshly, forcing the man's head to fall down. Gently, he placed a kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Don't go," he pleaded.

"Won't. Not ever," Sherlock breathed, marveling at the warmth in John's kiss. "We’ll finish this together."


End file.
